


skip right to the end

by RenderedReversed



Series: this ain't no fairytale [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Humor, Item Shop AU, M/M, Pre-Slash, Recettear AU, This is only the beginning..., adventurer!Tom, i guess, shopkeeper!sorcerer!Harry, still trying to cover all my bases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8482429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: It starts because Harry can’t stop being a good person.
To leave his adventuring past behind, Harry moves to Gryffindor District, Hogwarts in order to open up a new item shop. Somehow that leads to being held at sword point by a handsome-but-extremely-rude Tom Riddle. As far as business relationships go, Harry supposes there are worse starts.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [skip right to the end - перейдём сразу к концу](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13926213) by [Silwery_Wind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silwery_Wind/pseuds/Silwery_Wind)



It starts because Harry can’t stop being a good person.

Take any other person off the beaten path—take any other person _on_ the beaten path, and given a situation where they come across an unconscious, wounded (potentially dying) stranger, they would probably loot the poor sod and skedaddle away; “liberate and evacuate,” as the old robber’s saying goes.

Any other person would’ve just left. Harry gets off his horse, lugs the potentially-dead-by-morn stranger onto the saddle, apologizes to his poor horse, and gets back on again to continue on his way. Yep, all in a day’s work. This is normal.

This is not normal. He worries hopelessly about the man’s wound, but Harry’s tired too and it’s not worth the risk of using his mana and passing out because of it. He’s not in favor of becoming puppy chow for the wolves, thanks; civilization is near and he bets that’s where the stranger was running to before his body gave out. If only he hadn’t insisted on riding through the final stretch instead of stopping during the night…

The minutes stretch long, punctuated only by the sound of his horse’s hooves against the dirt path. He doesn’t know if enough go by to make an hour, but eventually the lamplight of the double-door gates blink into existence on the outskirts of his vision. Harry holds one of his hands out in front of the man’s mouth—there’s breath, but only just.

“You’re a real lucky bastard, you know that?” Harry mutters. The man doesn’t move. “A real lucky bastard. And whoever tried to kill you is gonna have a bad day when they find out you’re still alive. Merlin, I should’ve just left you behind…”

How many adventurers has he met in the past? How many parties has he seen fall to shambles from greed and jealousy and lust? How many times has he been backstabbed before, used and lied to and cast aside? Harry’s read through this story enough times to know better by now. Kindness in the adventuring business is a vice, and that’s exactly why he’s left that life behind for good.

“The devil’s wrong with you? Why’re you traveling so late at night?” a guard demands. The other looks suspiciously at his unconscious passenger.

Harry passes him his papers and the fee. “Trust me, I’m regretting it as much as you think I should.”

The guard takes one look at the bright red emblem on the front of his papers and immediately passes everything back. He only takes the mandatory toll when Harry insists.

“And here’s a bit of extra,” Harry says, openly bribing the two. “I’m a shopkeeper these days. We commoners have to stick together, yeah?”

The guards share a look before they both nod vigorously in agreement. “Yes, sir,” one replies. “Have a nice night, sir. We didn’t see anything here—”

“The devil’s wrong with you?” Harry tosses back. “You must’ve seen me here; otherwise people are going to be asking how I got in.”

“Oh, right you are, sir! Harry Potter, new owner of Hedwig’s General Store, checked in at a quarter to two this morning. He came alone…?” the man trails off.

Harry tosses them two more gold coins. “You’re welcome to stop by anytime. Hedwig’s will be open for business in a week. Have a nice night.”

“Good night, sir!”

His horse just barely makes it to the stables. With no other choice, Harry hefts his extra passenger onto his back, and immediately regrets his decision. He wishes he had a little more height and a little more muscles in his arms, but sorcerers didn’t use those much. Halfway home, he gives up and mutters a lightening charm.

“You’re a real lucky bastard,” Harry coughs out between breaths after he manages to throw the stranger onto his bed. The man doesn’t reply, but his chest moves with clear life so Harry scrounges up enough energy to clean and bandage his wounds before passing out on the floor.

It’s probably not the most sanitary of decisions, but fatigue takes greater importance than hygiene sometimes.

* * *

Come morning, Harry is significantly less crabby despite the kink in his neck and the bath he desperately needs to take. Both are dealt with accordingly, and after a small recharge, his mana is alive and kicking—some might say enough to bring back the dead, but Harry never comments on those.

The first thing he notices about the stranger he abducted—from death or robbery is anyone’s guess—is that he’s ridiculously handsome. Long quests don’t do much for adventurers in the beauty department, but the man is naturally fair. He has a strong jaw, high cheek bones, an aristocratic nose… If Harry hadn’t found him bleeding on the roadside, he would’ve called him a noble. Of course, no noble would be caught dead taking a commoner’s path, so that’s out of the question.

Eye-candy rating aside, he unwraps his shoddy bandaging job of last night to check on the wound. It looks…not very good. The gash runs diagonally across the man’s chest, red on a canvas of previously healed wounds and cuts. Yep, that’s an adventurer’s mark if Harry’s ever seen one. His own torso looks similar, with the exception of the difference in muscle definition.

An infection looks to be setting in to the new wound despite the previous cleaning. There’s an ugly color to it, too—it’s probably poisoned. Well, Harry’s seen worse. He did call the man lucky; with a bit of magic, he’ll be right as rain.

“ _Greater Heal,”_ he intones, placing his hand on the stranger’s chest. The place where skin meets skin glows white, and in the next moment, the infection is fading and the wound is scabbing and stitching itself up. Bless magic, really.

As the man is not in particular danger anymore, Harry slows the healing speed to gradually peak over the next couple of hours. Rapid healing may sound nice, but it’s killer on his mana and the patient usually experiences phantom pains for the next week plus. In that time, he decides to do what he didn’t do last night and unpack everything. Also, food sounds like a wise decision.

He ends up making enough soup for two.

“Afternoon,” Harry greets when the man stirs. A small wick of will reheats the bowl of soup set on the table side, causing lazy tendrils of steam to waft up from the liquid. “Are you hungry? Because if you aren’t, this is going to be really awkward. Food’s not good if you have to warm it up twice.”

The man inhales deep and shaky; Harry grins because the look of hunger is universal.

“Where am I?” asks the stranger.

Wariness seems to be stitched into his very bones, but Harry is good at appearing weak and unassuming. He casually swings his legs, though there isn’t much room between the bed and his chair. “You’re in the capital of Scotia Kingdom, Hogwarts,” he replies, starting general just in case. “Gryffindor District, Hedwig’s General Store.”

The man does not seem surprised at the former, but squints a little at the latter. “Gryffindor…?”

“I found you outside if that helps,” Harry supplies. “Brought you here when I saw that nasty wound. You shouldn’t move much, by the way—it’s healing, but I imagine it’ll still hurt.”

Just as he says so, the man tries to sit up and winces. _Classic independent adventurer who doesn’t take advice from a villager_ , he thinks.

“It’s almost gone,” the man mutters, staring down at his chest. “How long have I been out?”

“Oh, about half a day I suppose,” Harry replies thoughtlessly. The moment the answer leaves his mouth, he leans back on instinct and just barely dodges the tip of a rapier. Its point is a centimeter away from his throat, and its grip is in the stranger’s hand.

“That is very rude,” he blurts out.

“And you’re not very smart,” the man says. “Who are you? It’s not possible for a wound like that to heal so quickly.”

“You could’ve asked me those questions without pointing a sword at me, thanks,” he snaps back, but stills when the point juts nearer.

“Name.”

Harry huffs. “Harry Potter. And you?”

The man stares at him like Harry was dropped on a rock as a baby, which he does not appreciate in the least, but there’s little one can do when held at sword point. So he stares right back like the man is the stupid one instead.

It surprisingly works.

“Tom Riddle. A pleasure to meet you,” the man greets, unfailingly pleasant despite the weapon in his hand.

“Oh, ha-bloody-ha. Do you always say that while you’re threatening someone?”

“Hm,” Tom says, and in the next second the sword is gone, disappearing in a flash of light toward the symbol on his hand.

Harry is surprised. A bonded weapon is ridiculously rare, and rare things tend to be expensive—in this case, belonging to the royal family’s treasury sort of expensive…found in a dragon’s hoard type of expensive. Harry pales. He screwed up big this time, didn’t he?

“You’re a sorcerer,” Tom concludes.

…He should’ve just let the man heal the normal way. Harry should’ve just left whether or not he died up to fate.

“You can sense magic,” Harry states.

“That, and I’m not an idiot,” replies Tom. “The only reason I’m alive right now can only be magic, and the only one here is you. I owe you my thanks.”

His head hurts. “You can thank me by eating your soup and leaving.”

“The sword that struck me was poisoned,” Tom continues as if he didn’t hear, “I could not cure it, no matter what potion or antidote I drank. You must be rather accomplished.”

 _This lucky bastard—!_ “Not at all,” he says. “I only know a bit. I probably got lucky.” Even while saying this, Harry knows it’s a lost cause. He feels like a fish being circled by a shark.

“Harry, was it?” Tom doesn’t wait for a reply. “You saved my life. I believe I owe you a life debt…”

Did he say bless magic? Harry meant _curse magic_. Someone with a bonded weapon is important, and important people mean trouble. Harry has had enough of trouble for his entire life, thanks very much; he doesn’t need any bloody adventurer snooping around his mundane, perfectly legal, _normal_ boring business.

“…What do you want.”

Tom smiles. It looks more like a smirk. “Whatever do you mean? In this situation, you’re my benefactor. I couldn’t possibly ask for more.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” Harry begins.

“And I don’t mean any trouble. I’m fleeing from trouble, actually, and my bet is there’s no sorcerer in the land who could’ve cured that poison, not even Albus Dumbledore himself,” says Tom. “We both don’t want any trouble. Now isn’t that a happy coincidence?”

Harry sighs. “Eat your damn soup, and then we’ll talk.”

* * *

Tom eats the bowl clean of soup. Harry decides they both need a drink, so he pops open two bottles of butterbeer for their talk. He ignores the need for something stronger because inebriation should never be the answer.

Then Tom starts talking and Harry regrets not stocking up on some fire whiskey.

Backstory aside, he doesn’t need a place to stay. He doesn’t need money, or food, or any other sort of indefinite service. All Tom needs is an _in_ —he has the credentials to work at the Adventurer’s Guild, but can’t use his original name. Harry, powerful sorcerer that he is—according to Tom—just needs to vouch for him.

The problem is that Harry can’t exactly be known either. He’s just moved here, too; he doesn’t have the reputation to get Tom in by a little chat and coin. They settle on something else.

“You’re a general store, yes?” Tom asks, the speed of his words picking up as he outlines his idea. “Then you need stock, and if you need stock, you’ll need to go down to the dungeons. But you can’t go down to the dungeons, because you’re not an adventurer.”

This is true. Harry nods. Even if he can perform magic, it’s dangerous for a magic user to go dungeon diving alone. They’re too dependent on mana. In the past, he’s always had a party to protect him whenever he needs to recharge.

“Then here is my _business proposal_ to you: I am an adventurer. You are my patron. I fight, you sponsor, and we’re golden—I’ll simply get a new ID card under another name. You’ll find I’m quite capable on my own, so if we combine our forces, there shan’t be a dungeon we can’t conquer,” Tom says, smiling that smug smile of his. Harry finds he’s actually getting used to it.

It’s true that he’s new in town, so he doesn’t have any relationship or knowledge about the local adventurers. The guild is a reputable one, but there’s more to a job than just finding someone to do it—he needs someone who meshes well with him, and someone who is open to a long term business relationship. Harry doesn’t know if Tom fits the former, but he certainly fits the latter.

“We’ll do a trial run,” he decides. Then he sticks out his hand. “If it works out, it’ll be nice working with you, Mr. Riddle.”

Instead of shaking it, Tom lifts his hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. “The pleasure is mine, Harry.”

Harry kind of hopes he’ll regret this.

* * *

There’s nothing to regret. The trial run goes spectacularly—Harry doesn’t even have to do anything, because despite using a noble’s weapon, Tom is capable of getting down and dirty in a fight. He’s never thought a rapier, a _dueling weapon_ , could take on a frenzy of monsters until now.

This arrangement works out well. Harry’s quit the adventuring life; he’s tired of fighting monsters and tired of using his magic only to harm. Despite his previous words, Tom is insistent on letting him stand around doing nothing while he protects him—Harry is paying him, he argues, so naturally he’ll do his job properly.

Back at the Adventurer’s Guild, Tom signs his name with a flourish: _Thomas Marvolo Gaunt_. Hagrid, the guild master, is all too happy to stamp and certify him.

“There ye are!” the giant man exclaims. “And ‘ere’s yer room key as well, Tom. Always good t’ add another adventurer ta the roster!”

Tom smiles pleasantly. “Of course. Oh, and there’s one other thing I’d like to do while I’m here...” He glances over at Harry.

Hagrid nods a hair too enthusiastic—“Not a problem, Tom!”—before taking back the ID he just gave him and lumbering over to a small metal box. It’s too hard to see what he does at the angle they’re standing from, but it doesn’t seem to matter as Hagrid comes back a moment later, returning the ID with something additional slipped beneath.

“There she is,” the guild master says. He winks at Harry. “Treat ‘em well!”

Harry has no idea what he’s talking about until much later, back at the shop, when Tom presents him with a silver card.

“Harry,” Tom begins seriously, “I know we haven’t known each other for long, but—”

 _Too close!_ Harry flushes red. “Would you _please_ stop acting like you’re going to propose to me.”

“But I am,” says Tom with a cheeky peek of teeth. “I did say this was a business proposal, didn’t I?”

He takes the card. _TOM MARVOLO GAUNT’s TRUE CARD_ , it reads. _For service rain or shine, to a loyal patron through thick or thin…_

Harry flips the card over. On the back of it is his name, written in the same cursive font as Tom’s on the front. It somehow reminds him of a wedding invitation. He wonders if Tom had somehow requested that on purpose; he’s seen other true cards and the most common was good ‘ol Times New Roman—definitely not whatever this is.

“Deal?” Tom asks, leaning down so their foreheads touched.

“Get out of my shop,” Harry says. “I need to set up.”

Instead of being offended, Tom merely laughs and moves for the door. Silence, or avoidance, apparently means yes.

Harry supposes he’s not wrong. “As long as you’re a customer, you can come back at any time,” he shouts at his back.

He kind of really regrets that when Tom stops and asks, smile so sly he might've been a fox, “ _Any_ time?”

**Author's Note:**

> Gorgon!AU? Demon!AU? ShugoChara!AU? What are those???? No, here's a Recettear!AU because I just finished watching 19 episodes of Let's Play. (Sorry tumblr. It's a really fun game though!!!!!)
> 
> So in order to not be a super long oneshot, I'm making this a series instead. Hopefully each addition will either focus on a new character or add to some vague plot I've got in mind, fleshing out the universe as I go.
> 
> This is a new brand of humor for me -shifty eyes-. As everything I do, it's an experiment, so tell me if you like it~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [skip right to the end (podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9633944) by [MTKiseki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MTKiseki/pseuds/MTKiseki)




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